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1900 



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SOCIAL TRAGEDIES 



AND 



OTHER POEMS 



BY 



J. W. SCHOLL 

AUTHOR OF 

"THE LIGHT-BEARER OF LIBERTY." 



« 




BOSTON : 

EASTERN PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

6 1 Court Streit 

M 



62640 

JLitawnry of Coag^rees 

^\io CofiES Received 
OCT 18 1900 

Copyright entry 
I SICOND COPY. 

I Otliv&red to 

I O^Ott^ DlViSlON, 



[OCT 2 



X 



1 



75 3 


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Cf! 


; 64 


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l^tfd 



Copyrighted 1 900, 

by 
J. W. SCHOLL. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Preface. 
Dedication. 

SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 

Maud's Wedding Day i 

The Invalid 6 

Agnes Lilienkron, the forsaken . . 13 

Hermann Samssel 19 

The Bastard of Old Sir Hughs ... 25 

ViRGINIUS 33 

The Wedding Anniversary 38 

ISf ¥ W 

The Tunker Maiden. A Memorial Day 

Piece 43 

The Poet's Prothalamion 54 

I Love Thee 100 

My Own Wee Winsome Dearie . . . 103 

Message of Pressed Flowers .... 106 

Whither.'' iii 

Thy Heaven 112 

I Would that my Lips could Utter . . 114 

Thy Breasts are Twin White Lilies . 115 

Rest, Rest Thee, Sad Heart . . . . 116 

To a Rising Star 118 



CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

Estrangement 120 

Oe'r uy Heart in its Dreaming . . . 123 

Love and Wine 126 

My Muse 127 

Light of My Life 128 

A HANDFUL OF SONNETS. 

All in All 131 

Greeting 132 

Betrothal 133 

Lincoln Park, Storm 134 

Separation 137 

In the Shadows . . . , 138 

Beyond the Shadows 139 

A Golden Day ......... 140 

Time Marks her Flight 141 

My Bard 142 



PREFACE. 



EVERY life has multiform activities, and 
when the artistic sense is present, em- 
bodies itself in different ways. 

A careless judge will be carried away by one 
single embodiment, and consider the whole, a 
monotonous enlargement of that single part. 
The larger-minded reader will see that there is 
unity which binds all the embodiments together, 
and that that unity is not an abstraction, but 
a concrete human life, which, in its constant 
interplay with environment, expresses itself, 
always partially, it is true, but always genuinely. 

No writer ever gives a complete rendition of 
his soul. Not even when his work is done and 
all the broken lights of his life are gathered 
into one full beam. There is always an inex- 
pressible residue of the personality which per- 
ishes from the world. 

Emotional life as well as intellectual life has 
its tropics. There may be wide latitudes be- 
tween the extreme positions of thought and 
feeling in a single life at different times. The 
greater the life, the wider the range. A narrow 
consistency is possible only in a barren life. 

The contents of this little volume grew up 
side by side with the "Light-Bearer of Liberty" 
and covers the same period of activity. It 
claims attention only so far as it finds echoes 
in the hearts of fellow men, who are yearning 
for an ideal life, which shall make possible the 
embodiment of the ideal. 

The Author. 



TO 

MY WIFE, 

THE SHARER AND INSPIRER 

OF 

MY LITERARY LABORS, 

THIS LITTLE VOLUME 

IS DEDICATED. 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



.msb 



MAUD'S WEDDING DAY. 

¥ 

COME hither a little, Maud, while the shad- 
ows creep this way, 
Come sit by my side and talk, for the morrow's 
your wedding day, 

And a younger hand than mine. Dear, will lead 

you from my side. 
And younger lips than mine, Dear, will claim 

you a willing bride. 

And you'll leave your dear old home, and my 

old loving heart, — 
I've lived for you forty years, and loved you 

from the start ! — 

What ! You're not so old ! But it's true, 
though you, Maud, can't understand 

How your mother and I were young once, and 
thought and yearned and planned. 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



And loved you all together, before our mar- 
riage morn, 

Full twenty years and more before you, Maud, 
were born. 

For you were the last, the pet and pride of 

mother and me, 
And we kept you the baby still, as long as that 

could be. 

But you wouldn't stay little at all, in spite of 

our love and care, 
And your dresses were laid aside, Maud, too 

small for you to wear. 

And I'd have been jealous of all the thieving 

years could do. 
But they left you your mother's eyes of tender- 

est sunniest blue. 

There were other children, Maud, and we loved 
them dearly, too. 

But still, as each babe could talk, another be- 
gan to coo. 

And life grew stronger and prouder, my Dar- 
ling, for mother and me. 

And we shared in their work and study, and 
toiled for them cheerily. 



MAUD'S WEDDING DAY. 



But I was vexed, sometimes, when the world 
wouldn't seem to go right, 

And I said some things, my child, I'd be glad 
to recall tonight. 

For my thoughts go out to two little mounds in 

Sunnyside, 
Where the first of our darling children are 

sleeping side by side, 

And I wonder, if they had lived, if they'd try 
to break my heart 

As the boy that was spared to me ! — The fool- 
ish tears will start 

When I talk of our only son, that married out 

of my life, 
And deserted mother and me, ior a cold and 

heartless wife, 

That spoiled in a year or two, with her prim 
society ways. 

The generous heart of my boy, — 'twas the nur- 
ture of all our days, — 

For mother was patient, Maud, and loved him 
and taught him, too, 

To be kindly and patient and loving, and al- 
ways loyal and true. 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



But she was a fortune-hunter, with a pair of 

warm brown eyes, 
And he was young and loved her, — I thought 

it scarcely wise ! — 

But it wasn't for mother and me to know what 
was the best, — 

And marrying other people is wisdom's grand- 
est test ! — 

So we wept a little together, and let them go 

their way, 
And Maud, my Darling, you know the rest. 

There came a day 

When we quarreled — we couldn't help it — I'm 

sorry for all tonight ! 
I tried to do my best, but the world wouldn't 

seem to go right. 

And you're the last of all, Maud, for mother is 

sleeping, too, 
And I am all alone, Maud, in the shadows, 

alone with you. 

You will stay with me. Darling, you say ? No, 

that can never be. 
For you have a life to live, too, apart from 

mother and me. 



maud's wedding day. 



She sleeps in the silent ferns, Maud, that you 

planted on the hill, 
And I'll soon be lying beside her, if gracious 

Heaven will. 

And I'm not such a brute of a father, to spoil 

my Maud's birthright 
For the few short years of evening, before I bid 

her good night ; 

For William's a fine-built fellow with a strong 

and manly face. 
And he'll be good to you, Maud, and he comes 

of a goodly race. 

You love him, you say, and he's noble and 
loyal and tender and true. 

And I love him, too, my child, almost as dear- 
ly as you ; 

So blessings on both forever, for tomorrow's 
the wedding day. 

And it matters little how soon now the shad- 
ows creep this way. 

But when the first babe comes, Maud, remem- 
ber us cheerily. 

And nestle it soft in the ferns. Dear, for the 
sake of mother and me. 



THE INVALID. 



THE days grow dark and lone, Alice, dark 
and dreary for me, 
And the years float on like sea-weed adrift on 
a stagnant sea. 

But there must be currents below, for I know 
I am far away 

From the purple isles of light where my ill- 
starred infancy lay. 

I try to be patient and bear the tedium of the 

hours. 
And take no thought of the morrow, though 

Night above me lowers ; 

But I can not bear it forever, my soul is rebel- 
lious flame ; 

Why was an eagle's spirit chained down to this 
shattered frame } 



THE INVALID. 



Every muscle should have been strong as the 

lion's lusty thews, 
Whose chase-worn strength the day for each 

midnight chase renews ! 

The blood should have surged in my veins with 

a full impetuous tide, 
That could nourish power and passion and fling 

Life's portals wide 

To storm and sun alike, and conquer and use 

them both 
For the ripening of the brain and the spirit's 

dauntless growth ! 

But a baby's hand is as strong as this withered 

hand of mine. 
And health and hope are gone, and marred is 

the fair design, 

The Angel of Life had sketched with his pencil 

of seven-hued light. 
When my soul burst forth like a star from 

Being's primal night. 

Three score ? Is it blessed to live w^hen all 

that is worth the living 
Is ruined ? So long^ and remember a deed that 

is past forgiving ? 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



His blows ? His curses ? That look ? The 

tyranny worse than all ? 
The cloister prison that kept the heart and 

brain in thrall 

To creeds effete and dead, and systems rotten 

and old ? 
I'd rather be dead as they, and turned into dust 

and mould. 

For I stood on the threshold of life, in the face 

of the universe, 
A mendicant begging with hands outstretched 

for an alms, — or worse, 

A mind misformed and warped, a hand un- 
skilled in aught, 

The Gordian knot of the world drawn harder 
by all I wrought. 

And mine the fault ? If I lounge in the Inn of 

the World, and eat. 
And pay no reckonings back, is it counted 

wrong to cheat 

The World of my feed and keep, that robbed 

my whole birthright, 
And left me naked and bare, unpitied in 

wretched plight ? 



THE INVALID. 



Give me my strength, O World ! I'll struggle 

along with the rest, 
And pay the uttermost farthing, and count all 

things as best ! 

But the days are dark and lone, Alice, so lone 

and dreary for me, 
As the years float on like sea-weed adrift on a 

stagnant sea. 

I have friends ? That are kind ? I am grate- 
ful to them, to all, to you. 

But the bliss is in the helping, and I am all 
helpless, too. 

If only the struggle were done ! A man with 

the passions of man, 
I love — Let it pass ! — I have loved, — as only 

the passionate can, 

With the blindness of devotion, with soul and 

mind and heart, — 
My sister ? I love her as warm, but she has a 

life apart ! 

Her child ? She's the sunshine of life, and fair 

as a flower of May , 
But the years will make her a woman, and steal 

her heart away ! 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



Hush, Alice ! Sweet Alice, forbid — let it die, 
the unuttered word ! 

No random yearning of mine from its fixed re- 
solve has erred, 

Never to let a woman turn sympathy into 
love 

And mingle her fate with mine ! — let the inno- 
cent snowy dove 

Consort with the kite ! — Yet I yearn with the 
strength of my passionate soul, 

To stretch out my arms to something, ere I 
touch Time's latest goal. 

And clasp it, and call it mine^ all mine^ and for- 
ever mine! 

To love and cherish forever, mine^ mine, warm- 
ly faithfully mine / 

'Twas a dream ! — 'Tis a dream — that must die 
with the dreamer, unfulfilled. 

In a heart full of dust and ashes, where the 
buds of joy were killed ! 

The fittest survive, I can see, but little comfort 

it gives 
To the weakest in the fight, to be conscious of 

death while he lives. 



lo 



THE INVALID. 



There a father with light in his face and the 
pride of his life on his knee, 

Looks Fate in the face serenely. His race 
continues to be. 

His name will be heard for ages, in honor and 

blessing and praise. 
And his deeds will be cherished and told 

through all the coming days. 

And a part of his soul will live, in an everlast- 
ing life. 

Victorious over death in the never-ending 
strife, 

But my race must perish, at last, and none will 
weep for me, 

If I overlive the few who have loved me faith- 
fully. 

Turn mad ? And berate the world .? And 
curse the living and dead ? 

Because they gave me a stone, when I wanted 
only bread ? 

O not while the world has love and peace for 

the many, shall I 
Despair of the far event, though I may be 

doomed to die ! 



II 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



And perchance I am part of a plan, a part of 
this old world's life 

Not utterly lost and forgotten, though con- 
quered in the strife, 

And who can know, but someday, when this 

broken body is gone, 
I may stand an equal chance with the rest, in 

the coming Dawn ? 

And thus there is peace, sweet Alice, peace 

sometimes even for me. 
Though the years float on like sea-weed adrift 

on a stagnant sea ! 




12 



AGNES LILIENKRON, 

THE FORSAKEN. 



TO the sea-shore ? Down by the bay ? To- 
morrow ? Going so soon ? 
Oh to watch the silent ships asleep in the mid- 
night moon ! 

Oh to hear the dip of an oar and the grating of 

a keel 
And the sound of a step on the shore that my 

waiting heart could feel ! 

Have I ever been there ? Yes, once, — years 
ago ! — I learned by heart 

Every turn and wind of the shore ! — your par- 
don, sir ! — tears will start, 

But you seemed so kindly, sir, — to have a heart 

somewhere — 
That I trusted you, — couldn't help it — 'twas 

your face, sir, and manly air, — 



13 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



And I could have loved you — madly — but I 
have no heart, sir, here ! — 

It's down there, down by the sea-shore, dead, 
dead this many a year ! 

Dead ? As good as dead, though it throbs and 

throbs in its endless pain ! 
He*s there ! — the lord of my life ! — was there — 

whom I'll never see again ! 

Perchance he is gone — gone again — and an- 
other widowed heart 

Is broken and crazed like mine ! — Tomorrow, 
you say, you start ? 

Perhaps you will meet him ! And then, will you 
bear him a message from me. 

And tell him I love him still, and pine for the 
moonlit sea. 

And the boat that used to glide like a dream on 

the rising tide 
Far out on the evening bay — and he was by my 

side ! — 

You will think me frail, I know, but I'd sell my 
hopes of heaven 

To lie in his arms tonight — nor ask to be for- 
given 



14 



AGNES LILIENKRON, THE FORSAKEN. 



If only the day never dawned to tear me away 

from him ! — 
I'd rather be tortured, or burned, or severed 

limb from limb ! — 

Oh the exquisite bliss of yielding to his impas- 
sioned will ! 

Oh the clasp of his mighty arms — I can feel 
them holding me still ! 

Oh the kiss that sent the blood flood-tiding up 

to the lips 
And coursing and thrilling and tingling from 

the heart to the finger-tips ! 

You're startled ? We were wedded, sir, wed- 
ded, and never a chaster bride 

Graced a marriage feast, or sat by her honored 
husband's side. 

But scarcely a year and a day, — and down by 

the moonlit sea 
A serpent our Paradise entered, to ruin my love 

and me ! 

An ugly rumor was whispered, that said I 

wasn't his wife. 
But only a mistress, at best, — and the helpless 

innocent life 



15 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



That was nestling under my heart, could never 

wear his name, 
Nor look the world in the face ! — And then a 

woman came, 

A beautiful haggard face, that had suffered 

deeper than I, 
And told a pitiful story — of love in the days 

gone by — 

Of a broken heart — of love by an artful mis- 
tress stolen, 

Till I cursed the robber, and wept, — her eyes 
with tears were swollen ! 

I asked her the villain's name. With a sob she 

turned aside. 
Uncovered the face of her babe, and said with 

a broken pride : 

"There, madam, read in its face the name it 

ought to bear ! 
I've come to ferret him out — the beast in his 

seaside lair ! 

He is here, somewhere, I know. They said he 

was seen on the bay — 
Came nightly ashore, or rowed for hours where 

the shadows lay 



AGNES LILIENKRON, THE FORSAKEN. 



With his leman in the bow — Have you seen 
him, lady ? — ^those eyes, 

That face?" I started— 'twas he I—l ques- 
tioned in quick surprise, 

His name ? Great God ! It was his ! — " Low 
slanderer, be gone ! " I cried ; — 

" My husband ? " Belike ! And mine, and 
others enough beside ! 

Has he limed you, too ? Ah, well ! Be happy 

and love him still. 
I leave him to you and yours and the curse of a 

wandering will. 

I would his hand had slain me ! — It strangled 

two others before — 
But my babe and I are doomed to bear one 

trial the more. 

Farewell ! " She said, and was gone. And he 

was gone ! That day 
A vessel lifted anchor and sailed and sailed 

away, 

And never since then have I heard the dipping 

of an oar. 
And never a grating keel, or the sound of a 

step on the shore. 



17 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



They brought me home again — a falcon with 

pinions clipped — 
I heard from him once — he was back where the 

splashing oars had dipped. 

I tried to run away, but they caught and 

brought me here, 
A prisoner — held by an oath and a dying 

mother's tear ! — 

My babe ? I killed it, sir, killed it, blighted its 

budding life 
Before it could dream or know men's jealousy 

and strife. 

And since then I haven't a heart, but only a 

stone somewhere 
In my bosom, that weighs me down like a ton 

of dead despair ! 

But a woman is foolish and frail, and cannot 

master her will ! 
I loved him — I worshipped him then — I love 

and worship him still. 

And I'd creep in the dust to his feet, and plead 

to be loved again, 
Though he spurned me and gave me instead a 

death of infinite pain ! 



j8 



HERMANN SAMSSEL. 



T OUGHT to be grateful? Ah, well! Is 
1 gratitude only a duty 

To be felt by an effort of will ? toward a 
fiend ? or a brute ? where no beauty 

Of heart or soul impels it ? I ought to love her, 

I'm told 
By a threadbare text of the law, but feelings 

are bought and sold 

By an equal exchange of love, or an equal bar- 
ter of hate. 

And the scales are just and true, that mete out 
weight for weight. 

And they dip with the heft of a hair, while a 

god looks on to repay. 
Each moment its own perfect guerdon, each 

moment its judgment day. 



19 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



I ought to honor her ? That my days may be 

long in the land ? 
'Twere better I ween, for me, had she stayed 

her murderous hand, — 

Or better, perchance, had not failed to throttle 
my dawning life, — 

I never had hated her then nor known this mad- 
dening strife, — ■ 

Oh that I never had been, that the day of my 

birth were dead, 
That an infinite night had swallowed forever 

this infinite dread 

Of being and doing and thinking in endless 

mad career, 
The sport of an inborn hate, of frenzy and 

gloom and fear ! 

You are happy ? and others, too ? and a mother's 

love has blessed ? 
And home is as snug and warm as the callow 

birdling's nest ? 

Well, be happy and grateful and good, for such 

is your glad birthright, 
For the stars that shone on your birth made a 

glad and tranquil night 



20 



HERMANN SAMSSELS. 



For the mother who felt on her breast the 
touch of your innocent lips 

And followed, forgetting her pain, the wander- 
ing finger-tips 

As they started and grasped at naught. She 
loved your faintest breath. 

But if she had loathed you, instead, and cursed 
you and plotted your death ? 

My mother ? Bone of her bone, and flesh of 
her flesh, too true ! 

And her blood is pent in my veins with a venom- 
ous flood-tide, too. 

Does that make a mother, forsooth } that like 

an outcast bud 
She surrendered the protoplasm, and nourished 

it with her blood ? 

It is love, not blood, that makes the soul of kin- 
ship, for me, 
And loving care makes the mother, as long as 
Time shall be ! 

But why do I rage ? I ought to be mute nor 

her slumbers molest 
When the grass has been green for years that 

covers her harmless breast ? 



21 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



Harmless ? 'Tis hard to say, if the harm is 
over so soon, 

And the harvest, sown in the years, all gar- 
nered with the moon 

That wanes o'er the fresh-dug grave ! I feel it 

within me still, 
That her every loathing thought and murderous 

purpose of will 

Are built into flesh and bone and burned into 

nerve and brain 
Till I hate the whole world, and myself, and 

gloat o'er its burden of pain. 

With a demonish joy that the rest are shut from 
their Paradise too, 

And the Earth is a crowded bedlam, all mad- 
ness through and through. 

The years never hear a prayer, and thoughts 
are as deathless as deeds. 

And never a love or a hate, but bears the hid- 
den seeds 

Of endless loving and hating. The world is a 

growth and a law. 
And the dead mold the living, for aye, with 

fated perfection or flaw. 



22 



HERMANN SAMSSELS. 



Harmless? When I am dead, and my madness 

and crimes are dead, 
But a poisoned well until — Beware ! Hath not 

God said : 

"Judge not" and "Vengeance is mine" ? Yea, 
he judged, and I am the curse 

He denounced at his judgment day. From a 
salt and bitter source 

The waters of Marah have flowed. My mother 
attempted to slay — 

A silk and damask sin, but common enough to- 
day — 

Her babe, — and wrought for herself a slow and 

lingering death, 
And Azrael came with the Angel of Life, when 

it wailed for breath. 

She is under the sod — frail flesh — I'd pity her 

if I could — 
Perchance she was wronged — and by hhn — who 

never understood 

How a woman's soul can loathe, what a woman's 

hand can do. 
When the choosing or refusing is a right too 

strange and new 



23 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



For the mother to claim, — my father^ a sleek 

conventional soul 
Who never was vexed with a doubt that his 

morals were sound and whole, 

Who knew what virtue meant, and prized it in 

his home, 
And while his passions were stilled, was never 

known to roam, 

Who was reckoned chaste enough, by the letter 

of the law, — 
But a woman's heart was breaking — rebellious 

demons saw 

The empty room in her heart, and filled it with 
murderous hate. 

And I am her victim, and his, A strange un- 
common fate ? 

Thank God if it were ! 'Tis enough if one 

should drain such a cup ! 
But a million more, — God forbid, that more be 

offered up, 

While Belial's altar smokes with the blood of 

babes unborn, 
And mothers with empty arms look cold and 

refuse to mourn ! 



24 



THE BASTARD OF OLD 
SIR HUGHS. 



CAN it be? How could ho, do it? How could 
he be so cruel 
To rob me and basely defraud me of man's 
most precious jewel ? 

Can it be ? Is he father, or uncle ? Am I 

bastard, or son ? 
Why did they set me thinking of where my life 

begun ? 

Is it not gall enough to be orphaned twenty 

years, 
That they give me a father and mother, and a 

shame too burning for tears ? 

Give me my orphanage back ! Take away the 

brand of shame ! 
Give me my dead to love, and not the living to 

blame I 



25 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



Who called me a bastard ? A Voice ! A mere 

intangible thing 
That whispered an ugly guess at the mystery 

whence I spring ! 

Let it pass ! None knows ! Who can read in 
the blank of a passionless face 

That deep in the heart are lurking suspicions of 
disgrace ? 

I'll crush it ! I'll live it down ! I'll bury it all 

so deep, 
That none but me can know of its awful hidden 

sleep ! 

I bury it ? Crush it ? Kill it ? A thing that 

can never die 
While a hundred feel it and know it, other than 

he and I ? 

She knows it — his victim — my mother, and 

others all around. 
For twenty years is too short for all to be under 

the ground, 

Who knew of the scandal then, and his lasci- 
vious stealth. 

But winked and condoned it all, because of his 
title and wealth. 



26 



THE BASTARD OF OLD SIR HUGHS. 



And they'll pass me every day, and smile and 
shake their head: 

''He's the Bastard of old Sir Hughs, who wan- 
dered before he was wed." 

But I rave ! It is all a lie, a cruel, hateful lie 
Born of a morbid fancy ! I'll conquer it bye 
and bye ! 

For I had a mother once. I remember a warm 

sweet face 
That bent above me and smiled, with a dear 

unspeakable grace. 

I remember a clear low voice, that crooned 

sweet lullabies. 
And I loved to lie and listen, with half-shut 

dreaming eyes, 

Till I fell asleep in her arms. Was it she that 

bent above me, — 
My mother, — or only a nurse just hired with 

gold to love me ? 

I remember a time when they came, — they tried 

to take me away, 
And I struggled and clung to her still, and 

fought and kept them at bay 



27 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



With endless kicking and screaming, till I 

heard a gruff voice say: 
''Come, woman, it's time to go !" Then she 

wept and fainted away 

And fell on the floor before him. The rest is 

all a blur — 
I was hurried away — to the North — to the cold 

— away from her. 

How could they be hard to a mother ? Or if it 

was only a nurse, 
A pest fall on his body, and on his soul my 

curse ! 

And, my name is not Sir Hughs'. If he is my 

uncle in sooth. 
She must have been his sister, for if he told me 

the truth, 

He himself is an only son of an old and blooded 

race. 
Then why have not I, like his son, a fuli-blown 

lusty face. 

With eyes like the English skies, and cheeks 

like the English rose. 
And whiskers of amber ale that froths and 

foams as it flows ? 



28 



THE BASTARD OF OLD SIR HUGHS. 



For mine is an ample brow, and features ner- 
vous and thin — 

Not a trace of English blood, by my glass, from 
forehead to chin 1 

He loves me, he said to me once, because I've 

my mother's face. 
Why should he love an olive skin and eyes of a 

duskier race ? 

Great God ! Can it be ? Have I guessed it ? 

the horrible branding truth ? 
He told me of summers in Italy, of wild oats 

sown in his youth. 

Had he loved an Italian maid, or Alpine herds- 
man's girl. 

And fooled her with vows and pledges unmeet 
for the son of an earl ? 

Had he left her at length to bear alone their 

mutual blame. 
And give me birth and suckle me into a life of 

shame ? 

O mother ! My blameless mother ! Whom too 

much trust betrayed 
To the amorous touch of a brute, who would 

not be gainsaid ! 



29 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



I loathe him, I hate him forever, with a bound- 
less burning hate. 

That never on earth or in hell shall be glutted 
or satiate ! 

Hate him ? Hate a father to whom with all his 

faults I owe 
My life and all I have been in the happy long 

ago? 

For I have been happy, at least, and could be 

happy still 
If a devilish voice could be muffled by strength 

of human will. 

For mayhap he is what he says — an uncle, and 

nothing to me 
But the kindest soul among men ! — But why this 

secrecy ? 

Why not tell me about my mother ? I am mad 

with longing to love her ! 
If dead, let me go and weep with my lips in the 

dust above her ! 

If living, — just God forgive if I wrongly curse 

the hand 
That tore me away from her, perchance in a 

foreign land ! 



30 



THE BASTARD OF OLD SIR HUGHS. 



clasp me again to thy heart, sweet mother, 

and sing me to sleep ! 

1 am tired of this hideous dream ! — But it's long 

since I saw her weep, 

And who knows where she is to-day ? De- 
spised ? Adrift on the street ? 

And touched with a loathsome pest, and foul 
from her head to her feet ? 

And driven to shame by him ? I'd kill him if I 
knew 

Such blood were coursing and tingling my arter- 
ies through and through ! 

Why am I not all to-day that the devils in hell 
could wish. 

If a double stream of lust had built this quiver- 
ing flesh ? 

Nay she was pure, at least ! Was pure ! God 

rest her soul, 
If one false step in her youth left her body 

stained and unwhole ! 

Go and ask him ? Ask all ? I dare not. He'd 
shrug his shoulders and smile, 

He dare not own me the truth, though I guessed 
it all the while. 



31 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



And I'd choose for one, to suffer the horror of 

doubtful blame 
Rather than face the blighting knowledge of 

certain shame ! 

And whatever else may come, and whatever else 
may be, 

All the light and the joy of living is gone for- 
ever from me ! 



''MP 



32 



VIRGINIUS. 



TJ AVE I ever hated a man? Yes, once, in the 
^ ^ days gone by, 

I hated him — hate him still, — and shall until I 
die. 

His crime ? Not a crime at all ! There are 
things far worse than crimes 

That are done, untouched by the law, condoned 
by the fledgling times ! 

Is a murder, that ends a life, half as bad as the 

dastardly deed 
That makes the soul writhe forever, the heart 

incessantly bleed ? 

Is assault with bludgeon or fist and the purple 

aching flesh. 
That will heal in a week or two, and be sound 

and whole afresh, 



33 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



Half as hard to bear, as the thrust that wounds 
a sensitive soul 

And leaves its poison to spread till its virus in- 
flames the whole ? 

Is theft of a purse half as bad as the theft of a 
hope or a love 

That budded and bloomed as fair as the aspho- 
dels fabled above ? 

He came with an oily tongue, and a manner so 

winning kind, 
And an eye that worshipped me, and made me 

too too blind, 

Till the devilish deed was done. Could I for a 

moment dream 
That a thing so foul as he so gentle and fair 

might seem ? 

But his whitewashed face concealed the black- 
ness of his heart 

Till the plague-spot rotted through, — and be- 
trayed his hellish art, — 

But the bloom was gone — and her life was 
blighted, — a pure sweet child. 

My child, my only child, by an oily-tongued 
villain defiled, — 



34 



VIRGINIUS. 



Too young to guard herself, too old for the law's 

defense, 
A fresh young partridge to him, just fatted to 

please his sense. 

Why didn't he kill her, and end forever her 

blighted life ? 
Or why did not I, — a belated Virginius, — give 

her to wife 

In the land of shadows and ghosts to the skele- 
ton arms of Death ? 

A kindlier fate than to live, with the withering 
poisoned breath 

Of social scandal upon her, a mark for lascivi- 
ous eyes, 

The talk of the town, till the next that falls an 
unguarded prize 

In the confidence game of life, where honor is 

all in all 
In a woman's lily soul, — its loss the bitterest 

gall,- 

But man, the superior brute, counts honor ser- 
vility. 

The badge of a slavish soul ashamed or afraid 
to be free. 



35 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



Down with distinctions of sex ! Long live the 

Woman, I say ! 
And a knotted cord for the back of the brute 

who dares to lay 

Unequal burdens on her ? One code, one brand 

for them both ! 
Let him be shunned like the pest, his fellows all 

be loth 

To graze the sleeve of his coat ! Let the con- 
demnation fall 

Upon the source of the woe, — or, lovingly lift 
the pall 

That hangs o'er his helpless victim ! Hold her 

as white as him ! 
Hobnob with her, too, and forget, and fill Life's 

cup to the brim, 

And quaff it down ! Vivat ! Fill up her bar- 
ren years 

With a home, and love, and children, and wipe 
away her tears 

With Society's silken kerchief. Alas, the brute 

is alive 
Beneath the washing of culture ! Let her go to 

the dive ! 



36 



VIRGINIUS. 



Nay, tny flesh ! Sweet and clean her soul and 

body shall be, 
But the world is not large enough to shelter 

both him and me ! 

If his shadow darkens my home, or his foot 

shall seek my door, 
I'll strike him down where he stands and pay 

my hatred's score. 



^ 



37 



THE 
WEDDINQ ANNIVERSARY. 

V 

'T^hey stood together in curtained gloom, 
-^ Husband and wife by the laws decree, 
Alone in the face of a crushing doom, 

Alone in the bitter agony 
Of keeping the law, without a flaw, 

Though the spirit of love go unfulfilled. 
Guarding the vessel vv^ith pious awe 

When the choicest wine of life is spilled. 

Dumb with an anguish they could not speak. 

Mute with a truth they dared not face, 
Heart to heart, and cheek to cheek. 

They convulsively clung in a long embrace. 
As if the years could melt to tears, 

And gush away to oblivion. 
Leaving but love that doubts nor fears 

And the troth they had plighted years agone. 



38 



THE WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. 



"Uphold me, I faint !" The fated word 

Burst from her lips. The woe suppressed 
Of her choking voice, his bosom stirred : 

"Clasp me close, ay close to thy throbbing 
breast ! 
My heart is bleeding, my soul is pleading. 

For words that were spoken so often of yore. 
My life in its passionate interceding 

Unheard is witherins: evermore !" 



•t3 



"They said, thou art false, thou art hollow and 
cold. 

Thou lovest me not, thou art weary of me. 
I heard when their slanderous tongues grew bold. 

They were false and cruel. I trusted thee. 
But I never knew, for thy words were few 

And thy brow grew dark when I came to thee, 
If deep in its cold thy heart beat true 

And cherished its old sweet dreams of me." 



39 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



"And I wept in silence and all alone, 

Alone and unmarked for thy sweet sake, 
For thou wert mute and sadder grown, — 

I wept at their lies till my heart would break. 
Oh Love, give me my love ! I ask but for love ! 

I am dying of doubt, — dying, dying each day, 
For a word, for a look, that like rain from above 

Could make my poor withered heart blossom 
for aye !" 

"Thou wert gone from our home so oft, so long, 

Thou wert colder and sadder at each return 
Till I yearned, — God forgive, if the wish was 
wrong ! — 

As only a mother's heart can yearn. 
For our one dead child with its eyes that smiled, 

To come from its lily-nestled rest 
And soothe my heart with its presence mild 

And cool with its lips my burning breast !" 



40 



THE WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. 



"Then I thought in my soul — for dull pain warps 

The soul's clear sight with its cheating glass — 
'Twere better to be a cold cold corpse 

And slumber beneath the quiet grass, 
In my darling's bed, with a stone at my head 

To guard forever our dreamless sleep, 
And I almost envied the peaceful dead, 

At rest, and never again to weep !" 

"My heart, though crushed, at first was loth 

To dream of a life apart from thee; 
But hath God sworn with a mighty oath. 

That Law is stronger than Destiny ? 
Must our marriage vow be held sacred now 

When it curses two lives and blesses none ? 
Must we bear on pinched cheek and brow 

The blight of the ten dead years that are 
gone ? " 



41 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



"Look on yon half-veiled portrait ! See ! 

The tender eyes are so full of bliss. 
She is dreaming still — ay dreaming of thee, 

Of a murmured pledge, and one lingering kiss ! 
Then look on my tear-sunken eye ! 

Oh God, had we never loved and wed 1 
Let us crush forever this formal lie. 

And part ! I would that I were dead !" 

Her weak arms slipped from his close embrace — 

He pillowed her head on his trembling knee — 
His tears fell hot on her upturned face — 

And his white lips quivered in agony : 
"They slandered thee, as they slandered me 1 

They were hellish lies but they burned in my 
brain ! 
O God, forgive ! I have murdered thee !" 

And he kissed her pale cold lips again ! 



42 



THE TUNKER MAIDEN. 

A MEMORIAL PIECE. 



TJ ANG on the wreath ! 

^ ■'■ Wind the old battle-flag round his tomb, 
Its torn folds sweeping his grave, 

For underneath 
Sleeps one of the brave ! 
White roses droop o'er his hallowed dust, 
From their dev;y lips exhaling perfume, 
While the late May vvdnds in frolic blow. 
And scatter their petals like flakes of snow 
At every fitful gust. 



43 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



II 

O sacred Memorial Day 

When the Nation remembers her dead ! 
O holy tribute the loyal pay 

Of love and tears for the blood they shed ! 
Let the cannon boom ! 
While the gray old heroes come 
Mustering to the rolling drum ! 

Make room ! Make room ! 
For the gallant column marching down 

Out of the town 

To salute the dead ! 

Let the prayer be said, 

And the farewell gun 
Be shot o'er each comrade's grave ! 
The crowd is gone. The rites are done. 
All honor to the brave I 



44 



THE TUNKER MAIDEN. 



Ill 



Hang on the wreath ! 
Wind the torn battle-flag round his tomb ! 
For underneath 
Sleeps the dust of the brave ! 
Lost in earth's sepulchral gloom, 
He rests alone, 
Unmarked and unknown, 
And no martial pageant shall honor his grave, 
For the gay young world remembers not, 
And his grizzled comrades forget the spot. 
But the sun shall fail. 
And the moon wax pale, 
And the stars of night in darkness set, 
Ere the Tunker maiden's heart forget. 



45 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



IV 



Hang on the wreath ! 
Wind the stained battle-flag round his tomb, 
Its torn folds sweeping his grave ! 

For its stains are red 

With the blood of the dead 
That sleep the sleep of the brave ! 
Through thee alone and thy sweet faith, 

Fair maid of the loyal heart, 

Hath he his part 
In the drum's glad beat and the cannon's boom 
Ay ! Bury thy head in the long grave grass, 
While the dead dead years in memory pass ! 



46 



THE TUNKER MAIDEN. 



Brave hearts and true, all hail ! 
Blood and treasure 
Without measure 
Flow around their country's altar, 
They, the true hearts, never falter. 

Hail, all hail ! 
Columbia's matchless womanhood ! 
Never enemy withstood 
Such a banded sisterhood ! 
For their cheers and tears, through the bitter 
years, 
While the flag was rent in twain. 
Love-lighted the gory path of glory, 
Till the flag was one again ! 



47 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



VI 



And thou, sweet maiden, royal hearted, 

When thy gallant love departed. 

All thy hopes save one were blighted. 

'Twas the day your hearts were plighted 

That the shot from Sumter frighted 

All the slumbering North awake. 

All thy peaceful Elders spake 

Words of patience and endurance, 

With a calm and high assurance 

That Almighty God doth rule. 

That his ways are dark and hidden, 

And to question is forbidden 

To the children of Christ's school. 

Plain gray-bearded nonconformers 

Counseled peace, and counseled quiet 

Abstinence from war's loud riot. 

Stern descendents of reformers 

Prayed for mercy, prayed for peace. 

When Satan raged in war's increase, 

They thought upon their herds and flocks, 



48 



THE TUNKER MAIDEN. 



Shook their Nazaritic locks, 
And remained at home, secure, 
And kept their robes unworldly pure. 
But one sweet maiden, loyal-hearted, 
When the shot from Sumter boomed, 
Heard the voice of God, and started, 
For she felt her country doomed. 
And a pleading bondman's moan 
Grew a deathless undertone 
To the cannon's bursting thunder 
That rent the Union flag asunder. 

** Pray for peace, O reverend Fathers ! 
Weep and wonder, pitying Mothers ! 
While the Nation swiftly gathers 
Precious gifts of blood from others ! 
But if we pray for peace, we'll fight for't. 
And strive with sturdy right arm's might for't, 
And spill our heart's blood with delight for't, 
And God will stand upon our right for't, 
And bless our loyal brothers ! " 



49 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



VII 



Hang on the wreath ! 
Wind the old battle-flag round his tomb ! 

For underneath, 
Wrapped in hallowed earth's embraces, 

He sleeps till the day of doom ! 
He alone of that godly few 
The voice of his clear-souled sibyl knew, 
Doffed his coat of somber hue, 
And donned the Union's patriot blue. 
And, taking thy " god speed " full of kisses, 
Went to pray with his armed right hand 
For the righteous cause of his bleeding land. 

Thee for thy daring words they thrust 
Out of the church, like a worm of the dust, 
Of worldly pride and striving full, 
Rebellious 'gainst Christ's gentle rule, 
Misled, misleading God's own elect. 
Anathema, maranatha ! ! 



5^ 



THE TUNKER MAIDEN. 



VIII 



Hang on the wreath ! 
Wind the torn battle-flag round his tomb ! 
For underneath 
Sleep the hopes of thirty years. 
Others have garnered the harvest of tears 
That were sown by thee so long ago 
In the days of the Nation's doom ! 
Ay ! Bury thy head in the long grave grass, 
While the dead dead years in memory pass, 
And a flurry of scented snow 
Falls on thy silvered locks below ! 
Clasp him again in thy arms as of yore, 
When, wounded and dying, he came from 
the war. 
Nurse him patiently now as then. 
Kiss him tenderly. Tell him again 
How nobly he fought and how brave. 
And bless the blood that he gladly gave, 
That the flag might be one that was rent in 
twain. 
Ay ! Weep as his tired eye-lids close ! 

But the God of nations knows 
Thine was the greater sacrifice. 
Thou hast paid the richer price 
For the victory over his foes ! 

51 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



IX 



O sacred Memorial Day 

When the Nation remembers her dead ! 
O holy tribute the loyal pay 

Of love and tears for the blood they shed ! 
Let the cannon boom ! 
While the gray old heroes come 
Mustering to the rolling drum ! 
Make room ! Make room ! 
For the gallant column marching down 
Out of the town 
To salute the dead ! 
Let the prayer be said, 
And the farewell gun 
Be shot o'er each comrade's grave ! 
Farewell ! Farewell ! The rites are done ! 
Sleep on, Immortal Band, sleep on, 
Into the morrow's golden dawn ! 

Shout for the joy of it, shout, 
Ye for whom the battle was won ! 

Ring, glad bells, ring merrily out, 
Ye that knoUed when the red blood run ! 



52 



THE TUNKER MAIDEN, 



Huzza ! Huzza ! Huzza ! 
All honor to the brave ! 
But hail, all hail, to the Womanhood 
That back of our gallant army stood ! 
Whose cheers and tears, through the bitter 
years. 
While the flag was rent in twain, 
Love-lighted the gory path of glory, 
Till the flag was one again ! 



3®" 



53 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



THE POET'S PROTHALAMION 



SWEET Love, my bride and v/ife to be, come 
thou 
And nestle on my heart, for I would give 
One half this world, were all its treasures mine, 
To hold thee in my empty arms once more. 
And I would give it all, though richer far 
Than a world of worlds, to kiss thee on the lips 
With burning, lingering kisses, till my soul 
Grew satisfied, and I would pawn my heart 
Still throbbing with its young delirious life, 



54 



THE poet's PROTHALAMION. 



Nor hold my very soul too dear a price 
For one embrace or one touch of these lips 
On thy white unveiled bosom ! Come, my Love, 
My Paragon of women, my heart's Queen, 
And Queen of home to be, life's dial points 
To where the dewy morning greets the noon ! 
Too soon our morn will be the afternoon ! 
Stay not too long, but come ere the dew is gone ! 
We'll wander hand in hand adown this world 
And find somewhere among the haunts of men 
A cosy bit of Eden, blooming still 
For thee and me ! Come with thy household ways 
And dear domestic skill, and at thy touch 



55 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



Some ivy-clambered lodge among the trees, 
Or narrow cottage on a nameless street 
Were home ! Stay not within thy father's house 
To close his eyes into their latest sleep, 
Though he hath loved thee dearer than his life ! 
Stay not to cheer thy mother's faltering age, 
Though her heart break to let thee go, but come ! 
New duty calls thee into larger life ! 
Dear lips that cannot speak are pleading,come I 
Fulfill my manhood ! Slip the leash of fate. 
And rise to the full glory of womanhood ! 
Dost linger still ? My soul is crushed with pain. 
I need thee. O sustain me languishing 
In this unquenched thirst for life and love! 



S6 



THE POET S PROTHALAMION. 



Wake not despair ! Fulfill thy plighted troth ! 

Couldst thou forget ? Or dreamest thou that love 

Is dearer in the bloom than in the gold 

Of harvest ? Come into the twilight, down 

Among the thick-set pines and cedar-clumps, 

And I will pluck a twig, and whisper low 

Its deathless message sweet : " I live for thee ! " 

And thou wilt lay its fadeless leaves among 

The folds of drapery soft, nearest thy heart, 

And thank me with a look that would repay 

The toil of an archangel. Here, alone, 

Imparadised, and lip to lip, none near 

Save God to hear me at confessional, 

I'll tell thee all my love, and thy chaste ear 

Will love the tale, and hold it fair and pure 

As that white lily that once lay, at eve, 

Like baby lips about the areole 

Of each white breast, when thou didst dream 

of lips 
That yet should be, and thou didst breathe a 

prayer 



57 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



That brake in twain the alabaster-box 

Of womanhood, that all the night grew sweet 

With scent of spikenard and rich attar of rose. 

Perchance in Passion's aura subtly held, 

As in sweet incense, thou wilt feel once more 

Love's warm compulsion unto higher things 

And come ! 

I know not when our love begun. 
I only know we met beside the sea, 
In that vast wilderness of stone, whose piles 
Behold the lordly Hudson, where his waves 
Make young the hoar Atlantic and upbear 
In conscious pride the navies of the world, — 
Not pleasure-seekers bent on killing time, 
Breasting the surf, or idling on the beach. 
Nor bent on conquest, thou, nor vain display, 
Nor I on shekels most ignobly got 
By wedging ten gaunt fingers in between 
The toiler and the eater for the tithes 



58 



THE poet's PROTHALAMION. 



Unearned, that honest toil is doomed to pay 
The priests of Pluto for their idle keep. 
Four study walls immured us from the world, 
Three tiresome flights of steps above the din 
And ceaseless thunder of the granite streets, 
To learned seclusion, where old Nestor spake, — 
Our Nestor, — quiet else save that anon 
The chime of Grace church, standing near, 

stole through 
The open casement. Equal thirst for truth 
Led us to one clear fount. We sought a world 
Within the phantom chambers of the brain, 
A language sculptured on the plastic face. 
We spake ; then, first, I felt that I had swung 
Across the orbit of some fair new star 
That drew me with compulsion after her 
To girdle her afar with awed delight. 
We spake again ; of Avon's deathless bard, 
Of Schiller, the beloved Idealist, 
Of Milton's mighty music, and the steep 
Wild journey of the exiled Florentine, 



59 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



Of him who sung of Arthur and his court, 
Of him who told Acadia's exodus 
In sweetest verse, of Weimar's eldest bard, 
Immortal Goethe-Faust, and many more 
Of humbler strain, but fresh from the World- 
heart, 
And Art drew all my orbit unto thee. 
Again we spake ; and chance — or, haply, Fate, — 
Drave me to tear aside from the dead years 
Their veil, and thou didst see my panting soul 
Beating its wings against the mortal bars 
Of narrow circumstance, with generous aims. 
But bruised and beaten back at every flight. 
And thou wart gentle as one knowing pain — 
The pain of endless climbing, endless fall. — 
At length the low sweet music of thy voice 
Brake through the discord, and my wounds were 
healed. 



60 



THE poet's PROTHALAMION. 



Thou gavest a talisman — a card and verse — 
A trifle, but the world's a trifle too ! — 
" A flag and chart to guide thy daring craft 
Across Life's stormy sea." And then I knew — 
Not pity, pity is for the weak and blind, — 
But sympathy, magnanimous and kind. 
Thou wert mine angel in a time of need. 

Thus, day by day, in sweet communion, fled 
The dancing Hours adown their endless cycles. 
From dawn to dusk, from dusk to radiant dawn, 
From silent greetings unto low adieus. 
From sad adieus to early greetings glad. 
And yet we dreamed not that our lives were 

paired. 
Like double stars, for an eternal flight. 



6i 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



But once, by haunting memories impelled 
Of one false maid — or fickle lass, perchance, 
Youth makes a mighty grief of slender stuff, — 
I said so bitterly : " I lost all faith—" 
I know not whither tended all my thought. 
I saw thy look of infinite pain, and read 
Thy questioning eyes, but answered not. Next 

morn, 
Thy pain found speech, and plead with earnest 

lips 
And face aglow, for faith in woman's love 
And trust in woman's truth, though one were 

false. 
And, looking on thy tender pleading lips. 
And searching all thy soul in thy clear eyes, — 
How bright, how near they beam, dear Heart, 

for mine 
Do mirror all their tears and smiles in thine. 
And see the laughing cherubim, who stand, 



62 



THE POET S PROTHALAMION. 



As in two gates of Eden to defend 

Our love from rude intrusion ! — I had sworn 

Thou wert the noblest of all womankind, — 

The gentlest truest woman of the world. 

I cast mine eyes down, smitten with quick shame. 

And uttered broken words of faith new-born, 

Of trust rewakened from deep lethargy, 

And all thy pain grew into radiance. 

I felt like some despairing soul that clutched 

The stole of its good angel, and so climbed 

To Heaven's portals. On that day of days. 

No mild-eyed saint at her Marienbild, 

No votary of the blessed burning heart, 

Learned sweeter reverence than I who stood 

O'erwhelmed by the eternal womanhood 

That trembled on thy speaking lips, and glowed 

In thy lithe form — embodied eloquence. 



63 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



From that hour unto this thou wert to me 
A world — a hope ! Thou art my world. With thee 
Is life and love, though all were dead beside. 
Without thee, all were dead and cold and drear. 
Lay thy right hand upon my brow ! What warmth 
Electric ! Heaven grant it ne'er grow cold — 
So cold — and lie across thy cold white breast. 
Clasping a lily v/hite, to mock my soul 
With resurrection hopes, for hope is none 
With my White Lily withered ! One warm kiss, 
One touch of thy soft hand on cheek and brow 
Is more than all my dreamland interests ! 
One look of thy confiding eyes in mine 
Is dearer than a thousand memories 
That linger in the chambers of the dead ! 



64 



THE poet's PROTHALAMION. 



The Hours danced on, and, arm in arm, the 

Graces, 
The sacred Nine, and latest born of Zeus, 
All-searching Science hundred-eyed, and Mirth, 
And all the nymphs of sunlight, wave and storm 
And autumn hills, and the stern Sisters Three, 
Wove magic circles narrowing round our steps. 
And when of all the Hours the saddest came, 
She found us — lovers — Then, Aufwiedersehen ! 
We could not wholly part. With kindred aims. 
Art-conquered to one love of beauty, bound 
By sympathy that touched life's deepest chords, 
Each trusting each and reverencing each, o'er 

such 
One Hour alone hath power, — life's Tyrant grim. 

Dost thou remember the wee note that beg- 
ged,— 
If naught with thee or thine should tell me nay, — 
To know thee longer though so far away ? — 



65 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



The pen dared name thee gentlest, truest, best, 
Ere yet my lips dared tell thee face to face ! 

Hard on an hour of banqueting and mirth 
Our parting came. Down by the sounding sea, 
We watched the silent ships that o'er the wave 
Must bear thee soon to old New England's snows, 
And thought how many leagues of land and sea 
Must drift between us ere the morrow eve. 
We talked of home, and long-gone happenings. 
And sunny Southland travels, spake aught else 
Save what the heart was full of. Idle v/ords ! 
For Fate is Fate ! Saidst thou indeed farewell ? 
Or was it silence trembling ? Ah, farewell ! 
A lingering hand-clasp — and, in truth, farewell ! 

Then homeward bound beneath the evening 
star 
That westward, ever westward fled ! Ah, me ! 
I had no home ! The mighty instinct woke 



66 



THE POET S PROTHALAMION. 



That drives the full-fledged nestling from his 

down, 
And fills his throbbing throat with love-calls loud. 
A stranger, I returned to that loved spot 
That once was home. Yet, though I sat at ease 
In shady haunts well-loved of earlier years, 
My heart was restless still, and yearned for 

home, — 
A vision of quiet Paradise with thee, 
That dimmed all nearer joys with roseate hues. 

Love grows by silence swifter than by speech, 
And oft at dead of night, I whispered soft, — • 
So soft that only mine own soul could hear ; — 
"I love thee." Once, a vision white, thou earnest, 
A Dream-Hypatia with hair unbound 
And white arms bare, that drew me gently down 
And set dream kisses on my sleeping lips 



67 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



That thence grew strong to tell thee my young 

love. 
"I'll win thee, love thee, live for thee," I said ; 
And thy heart answered sweetly ; " Wait and 

hope ! " 

A fountain in the desert, fed afar 
In sun-kisst ice or storm-drenched highland 

plains. 
Once burst from subterranean caverns deep, 
Wells forth perennial in the waste of sand, 
And builds from dearth an oasis of palm, — 
A smile of God, — a kiss of Heaven, set 
On fevered lips that thirsted unto death. 
And such is love, fed from the heights of Being, 
The hidden currents flowing leagues beneath 
A waste of life, when lo ! it gushes forth. 
And all the waste blooms into garden ! Thus 
At the sweet words that half confessed thy love, 
My soul became a Garden of the Gods, 
Where no base thing could enter in, or dwell. 



68 



THE POET S PROTHALAMION. 



But life is earnest ! And far be it from us 
To build on sentiment alone the hope 
Of happy golden weddings and the shout 
Of children's children in our ample halls ! 

A dearer thing than passion and more strong 
Is love, — not that blind groping thing that grasps 
The wheel of Fate, content with idle chance, 
But Love, the Argos-eyed, that sees and knows 
Life's Inwardness, nor cheats itself with dreams 
Of swan-white necks, and languishing sweet eyes 
And fadeless cheeks, and sculptured brows of 

snow, 
And faultless breasts that quiver at each step 
In the gay dance, and finger-tips that run, 
Bejeweled, lightly o'er the sounding keys. 



69 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



Feeling is life, and love is life intense, 
But feeling is sharp pain, and love a burning, 
That wastes and withers life itself to ash. 
When blindly kindled and all uncontrolled. 
Therefore we tore the bandage from Love's eyes. 
And gave him Reason for a faithful guide. 
And laid our hearts bare to his searching orbs, — 
Yea, tore aside the veil from inmost soul, — 
That no dark fold might prison secret night. 
Let others build on ever-shifting sands ! 
V/e chose to build Life's during pyramid 
Deep-based in rock ! Let others hotly chase 
Love's phantom in the dusk of young romance, 
But live to find the real cold and dead, — 
A long repenting in the halting years, 
A bitter weeping in night-silences, 
Or slow decay of noble humanhood 
That half besots the soul to low content 
With passion's burning but ephemeral joys. — 



70 



THE POET S PROTHALAMION. 



We chose to make Life's bridals chaste and calm, 
Where each might look in other's eyes and say ; 
" I know thee wholly and without reserve." 
Romance is gone at sixty, but staid love 
Is not unmeet for younger blood. The dross 
Burns out in Life's hot crucible, and leaves 
The fieckless gold. Why not the gold at first ? 

Twelve happy moons bore love's swift 
messages, 
" Exchanging thoughts," we called it laughingly, 
Or, "bartering weeds from country hillsides steep 
For flowers of city growth." And thus we ranged 
O'er every field, rejoiced at every step, 
To find our thoughts and lives at one, attuned 
In fixed habit to sweet harmony. 



71 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



No heavenward-pointing spires, nor Sabbath- 
chimes 
Need crush to silence or awaken strife. 
No priest to shrive, no pastor nice to teach 
The way to heaven needed we who heard 
The voice of the Indweller, and had stood 
Beneath the stars together. Nor could aught 
Of state or statesmanship with party gall 
Embitter Life's full cup, nor shame our pride 
In the Republic's azure-fielded flag 
Whose bars of morning herald the new day 
Of Liberty, even then when woman's hand 
Grasps to the wheel, as sure it must and will. 
When earth rolls onward into perfect day. 
Nor could the tinsel and regalia 
Of secret orders shut within our hearts 
One thought, one deed, one joy, we dared not 

share. 
Nor could ambition tear our lives asunder. 
Nor knowledge, nor blue blood, nor lands, nor 
gold, 



72 



THE poet's PRQTHALAMION. 



Nor honors won, nor aught that blights the most, 
And makes the marriage-vow a mockery. 
So like, we marveled how two souls could be 
So like, and ever growing liker, yet unlike. 
Each complementing each, and both, full- 
summed, — 
The perfect being ! 

When, at length, we met, 
And autumn leaves were falling, and the hearth 
Roared cheery to the sighing winds outside. 
And the long evenings lulled the earth to rest, 
And hours ran swift away in golden sands, 
Fate turned her glass. We sat together glad. 
" Thou badst me wait and hope. Canst tell me 

more ? 
I hoped and waited. Is it long enough ? " 



73 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



I said. I looked, and thy lips trembled sweet ; 
" Yea, long enough ! " Thy right hand stretched 

to me. 
I clasped it. Our lips met. I held thee close 
To my wild throbbing heart ; " Till Death us 

part ! " 
This was the soul's true nuptials, all alone 
With God for witness. 

Since when we have known 
No law but Love's, and thy soul's purity, 
That lifts mine own to ever newer heights, 
Interprets it ; " Whate'er is pure and good, 
That makes love richer nor abates nor mars 
Our chaste Ideal, shall be free as air 
For thee and me.'^ Yet happy he for whom 
The tarrying Hours withold the marriage morn 
A while, — not all too long till the tired heart 
Grow sick with waiting, — for Love's law is 
chaste, — 



74 



THE POETS PROTHALAMION. 



Not the sweet anarchy of passion freed, 
Nor license bitter-sweet, — and self-avenging. 
And stronger than our helmed Themis dreamed 
When founding states. Ay, happy he for whom 
Love's daily discipline of self-denial 
Grows sweet, ere Themis leads the blushing bride 
Into the nuptial chamber, and stands guard 
With her drawn sword o'er wedded privacy ! 
Thrice happy he who bides his season well, 
Nor hopes for violets in December's flaw. 
And apples in the snow of orchard-blooms ! 

Love hastes not, but unfolds her loveliness, 
A modest rose that hides her virgin heart 
In tangled frets of emerald moss, till wooed 
By the dewy breath and kiss of morning. Thus, 
Ere we had learned her thousand dear delights, 
Fate tore us far asunder. 

Then fair dreams, 
Hope-winged and gracious, hovered nightly o'er 
Our distant couches, or, delighted, trooped 
From room to room, with dreamland effluence 



75 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



Flooding the day. When snow lay on the roof, 
And in the Dovecote's haunted chamber roared 
The hearth-stone wide, and ample comfort 

gleamed 
On wall and ceiling, earnest thou to me 
Familiar sweet. And once the vision plead. 
All clinging lip to lip, with tender sighs. 
To prove me woman's love, and ease the pain 
Of pent-up passion, yet did quickly turn 
All sad away and weeping make complaint ; 
*' Ah, me ! This heart is sealed ! Break thou the 

seals, 
And bid its living waters flow to thee ! 
I cannot love thee. Love, till thou love me ! 
Fell Eden's fruitage down before thy feet, 
'Twere little prized ! The winning makes it 

sweet! " 
And, when I clasped thee in my passionate arms 



76 



THE poet's PROTHALAMION. 



As sweet Francesca with immortal love 
Clung to her lover in the dusks of Hell 
When storm-swift shrieking blasts tormenting 

drave 
The guilty shades athwart the dark abyss, 
They fell deceived and empty on my breast 
And I awoke. And thus from dream to dream 
With endless yearning fled the desolate hours, 
Till thou and I were dreams, I thine, thou 

mine, — 
Thou wert the block of Parian marble white, 
My love, the sculptor. I did dream thee fair, 
And thou art fair, not like a sculptor's dream 
With fixed eyes and bosom motionless, — 
A faultless frozen grace, — but Love's rich dream 
Where every look and every pose is fair, 
And all is life and soul and eloquence. 



77 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



When next we met, the strawberries kissed 
our lips 
With fragrant greeting, and the changeful May 
Was slipping into June, and our young lives 
Were slipping into June — the month of roses — 
What wonder then, if roses burst to bloom 
Imperishable as memory and fair 
As a child's soul ! 

The choicest rose that bloomed, 
Was love — not love of self nor love of each, 
But love of one not each^ but all of both — 
Love's soul embodied into tendrils weak 
To cling with helpless wants about our lives. 
And link them with the touch of baby lips — 
A sweet wild rose that clambered o'er our lives 
With warm profusion in the dew of June, 
Her leaves pearl-treasured, and her chalices 
Pale pink with beaded gossamers festooned, 
In innocent boldness peeping forth at will, 



78 



THE POET'S PROTHALAMION. 



God-honoring and not ashamed of Nature, 
Nor envying hot-house queens whose double 

hearts, — 
A splendid sepulcher, — enfold no fruit. 

Through long day-dreaming fair familiar 

grown, 
The Mother-Heart found voice, and thou didst 

hold 
My head upon thy breast all tenderly ; 
" Some day a child shall nestle where thou liest 
And feel mine arm's sustaining warm as thou ! " 
I looked with questioning joy to thee : " Our 

child ? " 
"Yea, thine and mine, for I have loved it long ! " 
May He whose dearest name is Love, fulfill 
These dreams ! 'Tis long since then, and yet we 

dream 
The same dear dreams, and talk of days to come 



79 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



When suitors bashful come to woo our girls 
And our own eldest brings his chosen bride 
For welcome, or yet later full of pride 
Brings home a sunny child all coos and smiles, 
And laugh that lovers whose far marriage morn 
Still sleeps unmarked in Time's unemptied urn 
Should talk of children's children and gray hairs. 
Yet still may He fulfill, who love ordained. 
These later dreams, for love is infinite 
And lives in one the future and the past, 
A triune omnipresent fulness — Life. 

I laid my hand upon its resting-place 
As now — no purer touch was his that spake 
" Forbid them not " andblessedeach innocent ! — 
I breathed a burning prayer — such prayers do 
make 



80 



THE poet's PROTHALAMION. 



Heaven's harmony — where words are none, but 

soul 
Is large with thankfulness — that begs no boon, 
But overflows with a diviner sense 
Of life's sufficiency — the soul's content. 
And then I spake ; " God helping thee and me, 
Thy child shall be as pure as heaven's breath 
On our chaste brows, not gotten in amorous play 
Of oft-repeated lust, a child of chance. 
Chance loved, chance hated, — oft fore-doomed 

to death, 
Or hateful vice more terrible than death, 
The helpless victim of a mighty sin 
That hides its loathesomeness in robes of law ! 
Nor shalt thou be a slave to my swift wish ! 
God maketh thee, not me, thine arbiter. 
Thou lovest me — 'tis all my soul dare ask — 



8i 



Social tragedies. 



And thou shalt be a virgin still, though wife, 
Till thine own heart shall plead for motherhood ! " 
And thou wert glad. A new strange light beamed 

forth 
From thy rich eyes. That ghastly shadow fled 
That frights a noble woman's soul whene'er 
She dreams of marriage, lest the altar be 
Belial's and not Hymen's. " May it be ! 
God helping us" thou saidst ; " I thank thee 

much ! " 
But sweetest thanks were tears wept silently. 
After long pause : " O thou who lovest much. 
One boon I ask. This hand whose touch I love, 
Whose touch is love, O pledge me that it ne'er 
Shall strike the tender flesh of that sweet child ! " 
A word — a look — and thou didst lift my hand 
To thy warm lips and cover it with kisses. 



82 



THE poet's PROTHALAMION. 



Then, good night ! A kiss on finger-tips — 
A white hand wafted in the dark — good night ! 

How like a drear November day hath been 
Our life ! A gleam of sun through azure rifts 
Drunk in by frosted leaves that huddled close 
To windward of thick hedges, and in beds 
Of purling brooks, and then dull lead for hours ! 

When next we bade good-morrow and were 

glad, 
Mid-summer's sun was ushering in the day, 
And dull blue lay the far-off woods scarce seen 
Athwart the quivering atmosphere that burned 
The brittle stubble of broad harvest fields 
And rolled the banners of the tasseled corn 
And made an oven of the cracking soil. 
We fled to the cool margin of the Lake 
And the White City for a sennight's rest 
In that world's Dream of dreams — the home of 

Art. 



83 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



We stood on the beach at eve and watched 
the waves 
Come fawning o'er the sand to lick our feet, 
But all the while our thoughts went sailing on 
Across the waters till their dark green verge 
Bounded the blue of heaven. 'Twas Life's sea 
We traversed purple-flecked with shadows swift, 
Pale green with spots of sun, or white with crests, 
Till her far marge met the eternal blue, 
And we forgot the creeping waves. At morn 
Upon the Lake's calm bosom rippleless 
We rode, and saw afar the wonderland 
Whose softened splendors rose above the waves 
And hung beneath the waves — a double East 
Outrivaling the East — alas that flame 
Devoured her mighty pillared gate ! — Spread out 
Before us lay Man's world, behind us Nature, 
And both our home. We entered the grand 
Court, 



84 



THE poet's PROTHALAMION. 



We saw, we heard, — no words can utter what, — 
We breathed in life and beauty with each breath. 
Nor asked of whence nor whither. A whole 

world 
Had heaped her choicest treasures richly here 
Till the stunned senses ached with eager seeing ! 
But whether resting in rose gardens cool. 
Or wandering mid palms and orchids rare, 
Or tasting luscious fruits from the Golden Gate, 
Or listening music by the broad lagoon 
Where the bold fountain triton-like arose. 
Or watching Spanish sailors tanned and brown 
Reel on the deck of Santa Maria, 
Or conning La Rabida's wonders old, 
Or loitering amid the dust and mould 
Of ancient sepulchers with skulls and bones, 
Archaic pottery and carved stones, 



8s 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



And curious bronzes with the dead entombed 
And after mouldering centuries exhumed, 
Or gazing on some giant masterpiece, 
Bust or sarcophagus, or statue scarred. 
Cathedral altar, or restored facade, 
Or bronze Augustus or Minerva helmed, 
Or wild Bacchante nude with streaming hair, 
Or lingering with mute wonder nigh to tears 
Before some canvas where the master's brush 
Made suffering immortal, or portrayed 
The universal heart-throbs of the race — 
All bound us closer, for two souls are knit 
By thought's community. Daily we learned 
In thousand linked experiences one truth, 
To give is blest and to receive is blest. 
But doubly blest is sharing ! 

Soul of Love, 
Thy name is sharing ! One wild strawberry 

shared 
Is richer than a lap-full eaten lone. 
With no loved lips to grace the ruddy feast, 



86 



THE POET S PROTHALAMION. 



And water quaffed from hands that dipped it up 
From gurgling wayside springs for love's sweet 

sake 
Is cooler to parched lips than unshared ices 
Though pure Olympian nectar sparkled there ! 
Aye when Self waxes Love must slowly wane, 
And where Love enters Self is quickly slain. 

Love watcheth ever, and my sentinel eyes 
Would never lose thee though we wandered wide 
Adown the sculptured aisles of Italy 
Or in and out the booths of La belle France. 
I caught the shimmer of delighted eyes 
Across Carrara marbles that did seem 
Transparent breathing warm. I caught the gleam 
Of dark hair floating by green Latian bronzes. 
I saw thee pass the Flowery Kingdom's quaint 
And strange monotony of urn and vase. 
I watched thee glide among cold Russia's furs 
Or gaze on costumings of fabric rare 
From Britain's restless hundred-handed looms. 
I watched thee winding in and out where'er 



87 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



Thy eager fancy led in palaces 
Where art had wedded comfort and displayed 
Her nuptial gifts and gorgeous dowery, 
When once, half startled, thinking thyself lost, 
Thine eyes sought me. Lo ! I was watching 

near, 
Not with cold spying eyes, but tender glad. 
As if their orbs had power to guide and guard. 
Then wert thou safe indeed ! Though wandering 

far 
Thou couldst not drift beyond my faithful eyes ! 

At length grown weary with the endless maze, 
When night had lulled the city's mighty heart. 
We wandered down her quiet avenues, 
And here and there on porticoes and steps 
Sat seeming happy families — God knows, 
Who looks behind the scenes, what tragedies 
A quiet face can cover and what woes 
Unspeakable and sobbing threnodies 
A suffering heart can bury — but not one 



88 



THE POET S PROTHALAMION. 



In housed comfort knew so dear a home 
As we beneath those star-sown distant skies 
Unsheltered save by love. Thus hand in hand 
With interchanged confessions murmured low 
We reached a slender lodge. I kissed thy brow, 
I would have set a crown there, but gross gold 
Were far too cheap, and I was poor in gold. 
And so a long good-night, my crownless queen ! 

Thrice through the rifted clouds hath burst 

the sun 
Since then. Thrice have I crowned thee queen, 

and set 
A wreath invisible upon thy brow. 
Thrice have I greeted thee with silent lips 
And thrice alas have waited dreary months 
Heart-hungered for a touch of thy white hand, 
And saw but letters, or a faded rose. 
And heard thy voice in nightly dreams alone. 



89 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



Four summers thus have bloomed since first 

we met, 
And yet our life is love's pure idyl still 
Whose dear simplicity and calm content 
Grow strong with years. No restless yearning 

drives 
Life's currents from their fixed and easy course 
Through fruitful valleys and broad meadowlands 
To mingle in the all engulfing sea ! 
But once thy soul was burdened with strong grief. 
Thou couldst do naught but weep. A long 

despair, 
Not thine, filled all thy home with the shadow 

of death. 
Thou wert so crushed, so like a bruised reed 
Whose light crest sinks beneath the winds of 

fate, 



THE POET S PROTHALAMION. 



And yet my lips were dumb. What are poor words 
But rain-drops falling on a broken roof ? 
They make a dismal music in the soul, 
But the dull shadow sits and grins and leers. 
Grief is ne'er healed by words. I only wept. 
We wept together till the shadow fled. 
And then, so full of tender thankfulness, 
So self-reproaching that thy grief should mar 
Our few swift moments, thou didst kiss away 
My tears, though thine own lashes hung with 

pearls. 
And thine own cheeks were wet that touched 

my brow. 

But for the rain bright Iris were not born ; 
But for wet lashes smiles were meaningless ; 
And they who never wept have never loved. 



91 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



But when I blamed thee not but loved thee 

more 
For weeping with thee, smiles brake through 

the tears 
Like mellow sunrise on a night of storm, 
And in hope's radiant dawn we built anew 
Our world. We talked of home, the dearest word 
Of all the Saxon tongues, — the word whose charm 
Has kept inviolate love's precincts fair 
And builded deathless realms where men are men 
And nursed the heroes whose strong arms have 

won 
And guarded freedom ! — Our own home should be 
A Saxon home with all its warmth of love. 
Secluded and sequestered from the world, 
But broad-hearthed, open-doored to faithful 

friends. 
And courteous to the stranger, a calm rest 
Amid the toil of life, where the tired soul 



92 



THE poet's PROTHALAMTON. 



Grows strong for each to-morrow, a retreat 
For baffled hearts to throb out their despair 
On love's warm bosom — a contented spot 
Whose simple furnishings, yet elegant. 
Wear not the life away with needless toil. 
Where art adorns but not usurps true use, 
Nor beauty yields to garish novelty 
At beldame Fashion's fickle nod and beck. 
" Our home shall be the setting of the gem," 
I said ; " nor richer than the stone itself, 
For diamonds are not set in massive gold." 
"Nor thou and I the only gems," thou saidst ; 
" Cornelia's soul is mine ! Give me her 

jewels ! — 
One full rich cluster, — Love's own coronet ! — 
And what if they inherit little gold ? 
Manhood and womanhood is wealth enough 
To live in honor. Toil can win the rest. 
Had our own mothers' hearts closed to so soon, 
Nor thou nor I had blessed them for our life. 
Thank God, thou wilt not now deny me this, 
Nor tyrant-like compel these hands to slay 
My unborn darlings ! " 



93 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



" Mine own dream of home ! 
May these things be ! Long years ago, when first 
The great hope dawned in my young manhood's 

soul, 
That childish lips should lisp me papa sweet, 
And creasy arms should clasp about my neck, 
And cheeks should nestle in my whiskered face 
For goodnight kisses, a great horror dawned 
Like freezing sun-dogs with the winter's sun. 
Lest she, whom I had loved as man loves once 
And never loves again, might cheat my heart 
And leave our hearth a desert. When our lips 
Had trembled into vows, thy heart, I knew, 
Held in its loves my life's fulfillment. Then, 
That horror climbed my lips ; but I spake not. 
How could I speak that dread,and love thee still ? 



94 



THE POET S PROTHALAMION. 



How dared I ask without impeaching thee 
The pledge that thine own hands should never 

slay 
Our child ? But others ! Ah, Thou art not such ! 
I know thy soul ! But yet, one word from thee,— - 
One little word, — to drive that shadow back. 
I crave assurance where my soul is sure. 
Thy pleading tells me all. And, Love, believe, 
I yearn to see thine eyes and lips and brow 
Reima^ed in our children manifold. 



•^tj^ 



"Andthinkest thou that I love thine eyes less ? 
But motherhood asks not of eyes and brows, 
But presses the soft lips to her full breast 
Rejoiced in giving life. I will not cheat 
My heart of this one joy, nor question long 
If the lips be thine or mine, but only ours ! " 



95 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



" Sweet lips, and sweeter privilege to touch 
Its areoled fulness warm ! Would that mine own 
Were worth to touch them ! Shall our child's 
indeed ? " 

" How could I cheat those lips of their true 
food? 
Lo, here ! God gave me these two sacred founts. 
He gave me womanhood. Then shame on her 
Who leaves to kine the task her God assigned. 
She is but half a mother and full cheeks 
And virgin bust bought with an empty heart 
Are costly beauties. Father of my child 
To be, my noble Lover, speak to me ! 
Tell me that motherhood is more to thee 
Than virgin bloom ! Or, if thy lips are mute. 
Take what thine eyes are pleading and thy lips 
But now and oft ere now have chastely begged ! 
Touch these white yoked lilies that still sleep ! 



96 



THE poet's PROTHALAMION. 



Thou wilt find speech ! " Thou saidst,and drewst 

aside 
The drapery from thy bosom. My lips touched 
Its faultless argent. With thrice happy arms 
Then didst thou clasp me, and I heard thy heart 
Beat loud and fast. But neither spake nor stirred. 
At length I slept. When I awoke thy lips 
But pleaded ; *' Bless me ! " and I answering 

spake : 

"Poor words are mine ! " And then with reve- 
rent lips ; 

"God keep thee ever pure as thou art now ! 

God bless thy mind to ever nobler seeing! 

God bless thy heart to ever nobler feeling ! 

God bless thy soul to ever nobler choosing ! 

God lift thee into noblest womanhood ! 

God crown thee with thrice blessed mother- 
hood ! " 



97 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



What makes thee tremble so ? Is it memory 
Of that last scene so weary months agone, 
But dear and vivid as but yesternight ? 
Why dost thou cling with such unwonted warmth 
Upon me, dewing neck and face with sighs 
That shake thy bosom ? Is it ecstasy, 
Or some new holy wish that struggles up 
To fill thine eyes with pleading ? Ay, they plead 
For love's sweet growth to perfect flower and 

fruit ! 
Then come, sweet Love, my bride and wife to be, 
For love halts not in chaste development. 
But mounts from grace to grace, from boon to 

boon. 
Aspiring ever unto newer heights. 
Come thou, my Queen, fulfill thy plighted troth ! 
I'll lead thee proudly to the altar, Love, 
And boldly claim thee mine before the world ! 
Or, if more quiet nuptials please thee best, 



98 



'* 



THE poet's PROTHALAMION. 



I'll take thee lightly from thy father's hand 

Beneath the mistletoe where first our lips 

Consented unto kisses and we loved ! 

This ring be symbol of the gracious bond 

That makes us one, not by obedience, 

But by strong love ! Then may the burthened 

years 
Be kind, and when life's winter falls at last, — 
As fall it must, with snow on our faint brows, — • 
Like tired children croon us into sleep 
Together, sparing each one deathless grief ! 



^ 



99 



u^c. 



I LOVE THEE. 



T love thee ! 

But only the drooping lids that fell 
Over her beautiful eyes could tell 
The sweet unrest 
Of her maiden breast 
While mute on her lips the long farewell 
Hung tender and tremblingly. 

I love thee ! 
But only the seething waters heard 
In their starlit play the whispered word, 

For the harbor bar 

Lay faint and far 
Like a lessening cloud-bank huge and blurred 
On the far off edge of the sea. 



100 



I LOVE THEE. 



I love thee! 
The pine-trees sighed in the autumn wind 
With a yearning sad and undefined, 

And her rock retreat 

At their mossy feet 
Dreamed nightly of one left far behind 
O'er leagues of twilight sea. 

I love thee ! 
Her lips grew warm, and her eyes grew bright, 
Her soul grew strong in its new delight, 

For winged words 

Like messenger birds 
Came flitting across the trackless night 
From over the restless sea. 



lOI 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



I love thee ! 
She came from over the surging main, 
A turtle-dove urged by love's sweet pain 

To her distant mate 

Left desolate 
Where the dusky woods at eve complain 
Afar from the sounding sea. 

I love thee ! 
Not only the drooping lids that fell 
Over her beautiful eyes could tell 

Love's perfect rest, 

But lips were pressed 
That never again should say farewell 
Till mute by Life's sad sea. 



^ 



102 



" MY OWN WEE WINSOME 
DEARIE." 

V 

/^ Scotland's tongue so winning sweet, 

So lyric, blithe and cheery, 

I'd need thy matchless charms to greet 

My own wee winsome dearie ! 

My lassie is a winsome thing, 
A darling bonnie creature. 

With eyes that smile and lips that sing, 
Matchless in every feature. 

My lassie, she is far away. 

And I with longing weary 

Still eager wait the distant day 
That takes me to my dearie 1 



103 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



O winsome, wee, my bonnie lass, 

Thy ingle blazes cheery ! 
O call me to thy side, my lass, 

To be for aye, my dearie ! 

I've stood with thee in Summer's sun, 
Neath Winter's skies all dreary. 

But all the seasons are as one 

When thou'rt my winsome dearie ! 

I've stood with thee in hours of mirth. 
When joy smiled on us fairly, 

I've wept with thee when " earth to earth " 
With grief oppressed thee sairly ! 

And so with earnest lips we twain 
Have plighted vows together — 

Ah why should Fate so kind remain. 
Yet rudely break love's tether 



104 



MY OWN WEE WINSOME DEARIE. 



And set two mated souls adrift 
Upon the world so dreary ! 

And yet, I thank her for the gift ! — 
Though parted, let's be cheery ! 

When I recall the parting smiles, 

The eyes that brimmed so teary, 

I'd walk a hundred long Scotch miles 
To call thee once my dearie ! 



^ 



i°S 



Tiin MnssAon or PRnssnn 

I LOWIikS. 



A S filir hiMird I In- leaves of a volume old 

Willi I). ml. hating the abyhin <»( Ihll 
< Mil •*! ilic loUIr) •>! ili.ii IwioU of gold 

A williricd ( liiih I nl lic'ai I's lasr f<'ll. 

She Htarted - and r>iiiil<.l liiiniij^'li ilw gather' 
ing tear,'!, 

|)(»wii It^ll .»i lit I jr. I ilic voliiiiu- great, 
With the seven l«)l<l wur ilu- hinl upiear-i 

III lii') hli^dihii^'^ vi-unii oi ( liiiHtian hata. 



106 



THE MESSAGE OF PRESSED FLOWERS. 



She smiled — for that rude disordered dream 
Which the listening ages miscalled divine, 

With its lurid dusk and its dusky gleam 

Dissolved and paled in her love's sunshine. 

She wept — our deepest joys bring tears — 

As she thought of a vow and a maiden 
prayer 
Breathed long ago in the dead, dead years 

When she gathered the heart's-ease and 
pressed it there. 

She tenderly laid them on her breast, 

And a tear fell soft on their withered leaves 

They brought her a vision, but not unblest ; 
She was dreaming of love and summer 
eves. 



107 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES, 



In that warm sweet June so long agone, 

With the lengthening shadows at set of sun, 

She stood once more on the old, old lawn, 
And gathered the flowers one by one. 

Under the light of the vesper stars 

In the perfect silence of twilight hours, 

Under the sunset's purple bars 

She breathed this vow to the listening 
flowers : 

" No vaunting rider of gallant steeds. 
No heartless lord of a foreign land, 

No holder of stocks and title-deeds. 

Is the hero that wins my heart and hand ; 



1 08 



THE MESSAGE OF PRESSED FLOWERS. 



" But noble and free and broad of mind, 

With a great heart beating for Truth and 
Right 
And a voice to plead for humankind 

In their restless struggling for freedom and 
light." 

She kissed the flowers and caressed their leaves 
With a reverent touch of her pure white 
hand 
And whispered as one who half believes 

That the fair sweet creatures can under- 
stand ; 

" I will fold you away with my thoughts of him, 
I will make you warders of love and faith, 

While I wait with a virgin troth to him 

Though waiting and hoping end in death ! " 



109 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES, 



As she turned the leaves of the volume old 
With Dante threading the deeps of Hell, 

And out of the folds of that book of gold 
The withered cluster of heart's-ease fell, 

She smiled — and wept — for the years that fled, 
Had ended their ward in a trothal day, 

And she sent her " thoughts " with those flowers 
dead 
To her hero lover far away. 

"Take them," she murmured, "my own, my 
Love, 
I gathered them long ago for Thee : 
Though I knew Thee not, my own, my Love, 
My heart was dreaming, — yes, dreaming of 
Thee:' 



^ 



IIO 



WHITHER AH WHITHER? 



\ 1 7HITHER, ah whither ? I stand alone 
" ^ Facing the years that are to be ! 
Ah me ! Is there none, 

Not even one, 
Who will stand by my side and speak to me 
And lead the way through the desert lone ? 

Whither, ah whither ? The way is dark 
Out through the years that are to be ! 
Ah me ! Is there none. 

Not even one, 
Whose presence shall be as a soul to me 
To make the desert a sunlit park ? 

Whither, ah whither ? The end is far 

Out in the years that are to be ! 
Ah me ! Is there none, 

Not even one. 
Who will reach a strong pure hand to me 
To guide and guard like a faithful Lar ? 



Ill 



THY HEAVEN. 



T F thoughts of me are a heaven to thee 
Too dear to leave for another 

With gates of pearl and a crystal sea— 
A reward for holy pother, 

I'll build thee a throne for thy royal own 

In the palace of my soul, 
And my heart shall be for a blood-red zone 

To girdle thy milk-white stole, 



112 



THY HEAVEN. 



And the orbs of my eyes in warm surprise 
Shall be jewels upon thy crown 

That beggar the miters in paradise 
By the elders of God laid down, 

And my breath shall be as a wind from the sea 
That winnows the clouds away, 

And thy palace and thee shall the genii see 
Deep-bathed in a fadeless day. 

Ay ! my soul shall be a heaven to thee 
Too dear to name with that other, 

That still with its pearls and crystal sea 
Must be won by a holy pother ! 



M" 



113 



I WOULD THAT MY LIPS 
COULD UTTER. 



T would that my lips could utter 
* A tithe of the exquisite pain 
That is throbbing and tingling within me 
As I yearn for her presence again. 

Ah the world would hear me weeping, 
And mingle its tears with mine, 

And its heart would break at each teardrop, 
And bleed with a pity divine. 

But I cannot speak for grieving, 
And a dumb prayer for relief 

From the endless burden of waiting 
Is the only solace of griel 

For the heart cannot share its burdens, 
But must bear them forever alone, 

And dumbly break like the pitcher 

That falls on the well's curb-stone. 



114 



THY BREASTS ARE TWIN 
WHITE LILIES. 



T^HY breasts are twin white lilies 
^ That bloom immaculate ! 
Thy lips are sister roses 

In blood-red virgin state ! 
Thine eyes are linked stars 

In measureless blue deeps ! 
Thy hair, a brooding night, 

Above the lilies sleeps ! 

I lie amid the lilies 

And rest as calm as death, 
And the roses kiss my brow 

With their attar laden breath, 
And the stars from out their azure 

Flood all my soul with light, 
And o'er my throbbing temples 

Falls a cataract of night. 






REST, REST THEE, SAD 
HEART I 

(To Miss F. H , on the death of her Mother). 



REST, rest thee, sad heart 
That art throbbing in exquisite agony ! 
Rest, rest thee, O fond heart 

That art crushed by pitiless destiny ! 
O weep, but rest thee, sad heart. 
Or thou must break ! 

Rest, rest, wounded heart. 

In the valley of shadows dumb repining ! 
Rest, rest thee, O fond heart 

Like Death on the ruins of Love reclin- 
ing ! 
O weep, and rest thee, sad heart, 
Or voiceless break I 



i6 



REST, REST THEE, SAD HEART ! 



Rest, rest, troubled heart. 

For the clouds, though dark, have a silver 
lining I 
Rest, rest thee, O fond heart, 

In the night of the valley the stars are 
still shining ! 
O weep, but rest thee, sad heart. 
Or thou must break ! 

Rest, rest, lonely heart. 

Though the Spoiler has passed, there is 
love yet remaining ! 
Rest, rest thee, O fond heart, 

There are hearts that are yearning to 
still thy complaining ! 
O weep, and rest thee, sad heart, 
Or coldly break ! 

Rest, rest thee, sad heart, 

O let not thy sensitive spirit deceive thee ! 
Rest, rest thee, O fond heart, 

O refuse not the love that our hearts 
ache to give thee ! 
O weep! Love rest thee, sad heart, 
Or ours will break ! 



117 



TO A RISING STAR. 



OEAUTIFUL Star that shinest on me 

Out of thy East all gloriously 
Lift me out of myself to thee 1 

Thou art but a star, and less than me 
Who am greater than all things else that be 
On earth, or in heaven, or under the sea ! 

I know thou art dust and of little worth — • 
A glittering waste, a lifeless dearth — 
As dull and dead as this bulky earth ! 



ii8 



TO A RISING STAR. 



I know thou risest, a beautiful slave 
Compelled and scourged from the Eastern wave 
Though hung with jewels from Ocean's cave ! 

While I am not dust, nor of little worth, 
God's breath informed me, and gave me birth, 
And made me master of heaven and earth ! 

Nor am I a slave of necessity, 

I am God's right hand for Eternity, 

I think and create and am greatly free ! 

Yet, beautiful Star, shine down on me 
Out of thy east, all gloriously. 
And lift me out of myself to thee ! 




119 



ESTRANQEriENT. 



SHE looks a scorn that is far too fine 
To disfigure her lips with a sinister curve, 
And she hides her heart in its virgin shrine 
With an ostentation of woman's reserve. 

She is hurt, she says, by my cold neglect, 
But vows, as she tosses back my ring, 

To prove that a woman's self-respect 
Can overlive so slight a thing. 

Then her pride breaks down to a tender mood, 
In a flood of tears and a gust of sighs. 

And she says she is dying in widowhood. 

And will soon be at rest where her mother 
lies. 



I20 



ESTRANGEMENT. 



I laugh at her tears and chide her heart, — 
A brute, to laugh at a woman vexed ! — 

And talk of travels and letters and art, 

And the novel that Scribners publish next. 

It is over now. She calls me too coarse 
To sympathise with a woman's life. 

She is glad that her fates have done no worse, 
But spared her the curse of being my wife. 

We meet down town, but we never speak. 

She floats in a martyr's atmosphere. 
And her spirit is all too fine to seek 

A smile from the haughtiest cavalier. 

Then she tosses her head in matronly pride 
And walks with her richest Juno gait. 

To hint that the nuptial state denied 

Was the blindest grossest blunder of fate. 



121 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



She prays that a curse to my life may cling, 

Or at least some blighting plague might 
take me, 

Though she once had vowed on her trothal ring 
Never in life or death to forsake me. 

We loved, — or foolishly dreamed it was so, — 
In the flush and the blush of youth's heydey, 

But larger loves must the lesser outgrow, — 
Well ! such tragedies happen every day ! 

But the saddest of tragedies comes before. 

When lips are touched and low words spoken 

That bind young hearts for the evermore 
Only to sever, crushed and broken. 

But her heart is not broken, her wine is not draff, 
She will live to smile at each foolish sigh. 

And I — that resigned such a prize — I can laugh. 
We were simply mistaken then,Phillis and I. 



123 



O'ER MY HEART IN ITS 
DREAMING. 

W 

/^'ER my heart in its dreaming the swift tides 
^-^ of feeling 

Like the flood-tides of ocean come surging 
and sweeping, 
And their melody oft brings the balsam of heal- 
ing, 
And their turbulence often the marah of 
weeping. 

Floating wide on those mystical tides of emotion 
Old memories like tangles of sea-weed are 
drifting, 
And hopes that like gallant ships breasted Life's 
ocean 
Toss a wreck on the surge in its sinking 
and lifting. 



i»3 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



Sweetest dreams float becalmed in the tropics 
of being 
On a wide surgeless sea idly rolling and 
rocking, 
Where rich islands of purple are dropped within 
seeing 
By the mirage of phantasy luring and 
mocking. 

Rude passions like storms o'er the wild waters 
dashing 
Drive shoreward like driftwood the white 
craft of pleasures 
And plunge on gray rocks with a horror of 
crashing 
Rich argosies freighted with life-giving 
treasures. 

But faith rides at anchor in havens of blessing, 
Calmly rocking above her invisible moorings, 
While loves that bore messages fraught with 
caressing 
Like gay birds return from their airy de- 
tourings. 



124 



o'er my heart in its dreaming. 



Ah my heart, in thy dreaming, the swift tides 
of feeling 
Like the flood-tides of ocean come surging 
and sweeping! 
And their melody oft brings the balsam of heal- 
ing, 
Though their turbulence often the marah 
of weeping 1 



'^""^M^T* 






125 



"LOVE AND WINE." 

¥ 

ly /I Y Goethe sings of love and wine, 

My Lessing sings of wine and love, 
My muse is something more divine ; 
She bids my lips forego the wine 
For double draughts of nectared love. 

Sing on, my Goethe, love, and wine, 
Sing on, my Lessing, wine and love, 
My lips refuse your Rhenish wine 
But claim the kisses doubly mine 
And doubled all the gifts of love. 



126 



MY MUSE. 



" T^HE god that touched my lips with song, 
That fed my soul with passions strong 

Is dead ! 
The Muse that comforted me long 

Is fled ! 
The radiant days of youth are spent ! '* 
I murmured full of discontent. 

And then I looked into thine eyes, 
As clear and deep as southern skies 

Aglow ! — 
My Italy ! — My Paradise ! — 

And lo ! 
The radiant days I lately mourned, — 
The dream, — the Daemon, — all returned ! 



127 



THE LIGHT OF MY LIFE 



T IGHT of my life, my babe, 
^ With the laughter on thy lips, 
With thy restless dimpled feet, 
And thy rosy finger-tips. 

Whence does the brightness come 
That glows in thy dusky eyes. 

As they welcome my home-coming glad 
With a look of sweet surprise, 



» Written by Mrs. Clara Harwood-Scholi. 

128 



THE LIGHT OF MY LIFE. 



Or gaze with a startled wonder 

At the common things of earth, 

Not'knowing that thy treasures 
Are all so little worth ? 

Yet wiser than thine elders 
Who treasure only gold, 

Thy little world is gladdened 
With riches manifold 

Of toy and leaf and blossom 
To which a grateful heart 

Adds double worth and blessing 
That naught else can impart. 

Wee image of thy father, 

Hast thou his soul within, 

A heart like his, still yearning 
From every source to win 



129 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



Its meed of truth and honor, 

Its wealth of word and deed, 

To fashion for thy guidance 
A broad and sunny creed, 

That shall leave the soul unfettered 
To grow with each new thought 

That comes with Time's swift changes 
Or by the heart is sought ! 

Thou tiny elfin maiden, 

Come nestle close and warm 
On the heart that loves thee best 

Of all in this world of storm, 

Of sunshine, pain and gladness ! 

Oh may the garnered years 
Bring richest store of blessing 

To banish all thy tears ! 



130 



H f)aiidful of Sonnets^ 

ALL IN ALL. 

T need not fear to trust thee all in all, 
So pure, so gentle, and so nobly true, 
Thou child of solitudes ! Thy spirit drew 
Its richness from the silences that fall 
With calm and sweetness on the troubled heart 
Thou wert not nurst amid the glare of lamps 
A brilliant show, which the gay worldling 
stamps 
A social queen. Thine is the better part 
That naught can take away, true womanhood 
Whose effluence as the soft rays that fall 
From cloudless heavens and a night of stars. 
Silvering the dusk, makes all things fair and 
good : 
For this I learned to trust thee all in all, 
And faith the gate-way of all good unbars. 

131 



^ 



GREETING. 

"11 7HERE shall I greet thee, Love ? In crowded 
ways 
With throngs whose idle and incurious eyes 
Would startle into quick and cold surprise 
And quench sweet love with their rude heartless 

gaze ? 
Nay, rather in some silence let us meet 

Where the mute welcome of glad tears may be 
And lips may meet in love's sweet privacy 
Unshamed and pure ; in some lone loved retreat 
Where all chaste hopes unsilenced may be told 
And vows replighted speed the hours apace ; 
Where arms that waited long, at length may 
fold, 
Thy yielding bosom in their warm embrace 
Nor heed the world's conventions false and cold 
While love's sweet breath is dewing neck and 
face. 



132 



BETROTHAL. 

ly A Y pure one, my White Lily, whose chaste 
lips 
Drank morning dew, where life's cool shadows 

brood ! 
My perfect flower of noble womanhood ! 
From out thy wanton sisterhood, where dips 
With touch promiscuous the lustful bee 
Just prizing loveliness for what it yields 
When rifled of the treasure that it shields, 
I chose thee, spotless one, to cherish thee 
Less for ephemeral uses than to fill 

Life with perennial sweetness. Love, place 

thou 
With thy pure lips a seal upon my brow 
To keep my thoughts from straying into ill 1 
Chasten my soul till life's realities 
Accord with thy soul's idealities ! 



^33 



^ 



LINCOLN PARK, Storm. 



A GAIN the light spray dashing from the Lake, 
Wets all the level pavement by the beach 
And beats, wind-driven, in the face of each 
A gusty welcome to the merry-make 
Of wave and storm. Again the wash and swish 
With undertones of thunder and low moans 
That mock, like echo faint, old Ocean's tones 
When tumbling on his rocks with heathenish 
Wild mirth and daring, comes from the far deep, 
And silver wave-crests self-dissolving leap 
To clasp the errant winds in their mad chase. 
But slip back thwarted from the wet embrace 
With passion-quenched arms to liquid death 
Till quickened by the Storm-king's lusty breath. 



134 



LINCOLN PARK. 



II 

This is the day, and these the sounds and sights 
That smote upon our senses, one sweet morn, 
With heahng, for our eyes and hearts were 
worn, 
Art-dazzled by the myriad blinding lights 
Of the White City. We had sped away 

Behind the clattering hoofs of an ebon span 
That beat rude music as they lightly ran 
Along the pavement stones in arduous play. 
I hear it yet. The moan of breakers steals 
Mingled with hoof-beats and the roll of wheels 
Into my willing ear. Admiring cries 
Burst from thy lips, when the wild waters rise 
With sudden leap above the rock-curbed shore 
And plunge back head-long with unwonted roar. 



135 



SOCIAL TRAGEDIES. 



Ill 

And fragments of forgotten verse, perforce, 
First sung by some old lover of the seas 
Utter themselves with song's impulsive ease 

From half unconscious lips, from their deep 
source 

In labyrinthine memory compelled 

By the tumultuous beauty, and the wild 
Storm-tossed magnificence. Thine eyelids 
smiled. 
And all thy being rose. Glad I beheld 
The light of thy sweet eyes, and glad I heard 
The music of thy voice, and drunk each word 
With eager spirit in. I hear thee still. 
Laugh still, sweet eyes, like two fair stars until 
Ye laugh again to mine ! Sing on, sweet lips. 
Till dearer Silence, Love's last song outstrips ! 



136 



^ 



SEPARATION. 

"p\AY follows lingering day, on, on, forever, 
*-^ And I from out my study's cheerless prison 
Deep yearning, gaze into each day new risen 
And stretch my arms to thee, yet clasp thee 

never ! 
How long — how long — O weary, weary hours 
Must I this voiceless separation bear ? 
How long — how long, must I withstand 
despair 
By memory's sweet but evanescent powers ? 
These lips, untouched by thine, grow strangely 
dumb. 
These hands, unclasped by thine, their cunning 
lose, 
This heart throbs weak, so severed from its 
mate. 
Once more, Beloved, once more bid me come ! 
I dare not come to thee if thou refuse. 

Yet O with what strong yearning do I wait ! 



»37 



A? 



IN THE SHADOWS. 

"r\EAR patient woman, with thy heart of gold, 
Strong burden-bearer through the lingering 
years, 
Whom bootless grief doth often force to tears 
But ne'er to weak complainings, manifold 
Rich graces wait upon thee ! Thou dost hold 
Thyself insphered in household ways obscure, 
An angel of mercy whom four walls immure 
To quiet ministerings, yet, behold ! 
To those four walls of pain, with beautiful feet 
The Presence comes, and thou art grown more 

sweet 
And tender and more strong. And larger thought 
Comes with the visitation, and hath brought 
The Vision Beautiful — the soul's ideal, 
To woo thee into life's divinest real. 



138 



^ 



BEYOND THE SHADOWS. 

"\1 /E know not half the noble worth of life 
Till pallid lips, half-parted with the smile 
That Death emmarbled as he passed, the 
while 
Send deathless greetings from beyond the strife ! 
We know not half the worth of the warm blood 
That pulses in us, till those hearts are stilled 
Whose blameless love, and passionate yearn- 
ing filled 
Our veins to bursting with the joyous flood ! 
Bereft, we stand, the flower of all Time, 

The conscious fruitage of ancestral worth ! 
Her life, grown rich, tides on in thee sublime 
And though her dust be welcomed to the 
earth 
Her spirit dwells in thee, my faithful One ! 
I'll love and cherish both in thee alone ! 



139 



#^ 



A GOLDEN DAY. 

nPHRICE happy Love of mine, this Golden 
Day, 
Most precious in the heart's whole calendar, 
Has filled Life's cup brim full. The sacred 
jar 
Of wine with mint and honey mingled, nay 
The soul's own chalice, brimmed with nectar, lay 
Upon my purple lips — for naught did mar 
The bliss of that one draught, — and every 
scar 
Upon my soul was healed and fled away. 
Thrice happy Golden Day, on such as thou, 
'Twere happy to be born, 'twere blest to die, 
'Tis heaven to live, intense, intoxicate. 
The god within grown radiant on the brow, 
Thrilling the brain and beaming in the eye, — 
Best Love, blest Love, I thank thee for 
this date ! 



140 



^ 



TIME riARKS HER FLIGHT. 

T^IME marks her flight with roses and with 
snows. 

Her Junes and her Decembers come and go 
In swift mutation, like the ebb and flow 
That daily breaks old Ocean's wide repose. 
To-day we wreathe a garland of wild roses 
To crown at festival a maiden queen, 
To-morrow on her ample brow serene 
The gathered snow of four-score years reposes ! 
We lisp till manhood's prime upon us steals, 
Then forge our mightiest aims on life's last 
verge. 
Alas ! It were a thought too deep for tears, 
If Death, the Victor, brake the living seals 
Of soul, and all these aims that onward urge, 
Rest unfulfilled throughout the eternal 
years ! 



141 



^ 



n\ BARD. 

T would not have thee like to other bards, 
To sing aloof from me in far blue heights 
A mystic strain of iris-hued delights, 
Compelling souls to leap up heavenwards. 
I'd have thee lowlier, nearer to the swards 
That vault in buried loves, or kiss the feet 
Of joyous childhood, ere it runs to meet, 
Full-shod, Life's struggles and its stern rewards. 
I would not have thee like a mountain peak. 
Majestic, cold, oak-girdled, capped with 
snows. 
Be thou my stately beech-wood, full of ease, 
A shelter from Life's heat, where I may seek 
The living brook that gurgles and o'erflows. 
There, 'mid the flowers, I'll drink and be 
at peace. 



142 



THE LIGHT-BEARER OF LIBERTY, 

By J. W. SCHOLL, 

Author of "SOCIAL TRAGEDIES." 



"The Light Bearer of Liberty" has 
not a dull line from cover to cover. It 
is full of genuine poetic fire. It is manly, 
bold, but does not stoop to meanness 
anywhere. It contains a splendid tribute 
to womanhood, a fine appeal fiar a happier 
childhood, an optimistic outlook upon 
the race. It is democratic. — American. 

HANDSOME CLOTH BINDING, i2mo, EMBOSSED 
COVERS, $i.oo. 

Sent prepaid upon receipt of price, or can be secured at any 
leading book store. 



PERSONAL COMMENT. 

COL. MARK L. DeMOTTE, Dean of the 
Northern Ind. Law School^ Valparaiso^ Ind. — 
" We have read and commented, and commented 
and read, and agree that the book is one of rare 
poetical merit. It abounds with poetical 
thought expressed in poetical language, and 
with a rhyme and rhythm that makes it delight- 
ful reading," 



REV. R. A. WHITE, Stewart Ave. Universa- 
list Churchy Chicago, III. — " The thought is 
courageous and true. The poetic form excellent. 
It is a brave and interesting volume of poems, 
and I am sure it will do much good." 

REV. HUNTLY LLOYD, Southold, L. I. — 
" The verses are deliciously simple and sweet, 
and there is a smoothness of rhythm and cor- 
rectness of rhyme that in these days is refresh- 
ing. I trust that this volume will be a forerun- 
ner of still as sweet streams that shall flow from 
the same fount of Parnassus." 

¥ 

MRS. ROBERT G. INGERSOLL (to 
author). — '' I thank you from the bottom of 
my heart for the grand tribute to my husband 
in the poem *The Light-Bearer of Liberty.'" 

¥¥¥ 

VOICE OF THE PRESS. 



On reading the book, one feels something as 
Desdemona felt when listening to the Moor's 
story. — Commercial Appeal^ Memphis. 

¥ 
The author, giving a reason for the existence 
of the book, shows that he has something to 



say to the public. He has a crack at religion 
and lets the reader know he is a great admirer 
of Col. Ingersoll. In short, he is the right sort 
of a man to make a good poet and his verse has 
a good ring. — Bookseller a fid Newsman. 

¥ 

Many of the poems, which are a humble con- 
tribution to the cause for which the best blood 
was spilled in all ages, and for which oblioquy 
and hissing are borne now, contain vigorous 
passages full of intense earnestness, genius, and 
poetic fire. — Sa?i Francisco Chronicle. 

¥ 

While one may take the liberty to dissent from 
some of the 20 dogmatic propositions laid down 
in the author's preface, one may find many 
mellow lines in the verse pages. — Globe^ Boston. 

¥ 

The movement of the poems is stirring, the 
diction clear and vigorous. The writer ap- 
proaches the problems of life with a seriousness 
and an underlying reverence. — Cumulatio?i 
Book Index. 

¥ 

Mr. Scholl is a man with poetic instincts, who 
has revolted from the dogmas of ancient creeds, 
and beat his v/ay out into a faith more in accord 
with science and reason. — Christian Register^ 
Boston. 



All the poems have the same forceful rhetoric 
and vivid picturesqueness. — Globe-Democrat^ 
St. Louis. 

¥ 

The title poem is well constructed and 
possesses power with many line fancies. — 
Transaipt^ Portlandy Me. 



The author seems inspired with intense ad- 
miration for the late Col. IngersoU. — Spyy 
Worcester^ Mass, 



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